French Fries
by poxmaker
Summary: In which Reese wants to do "romantic stuff", but Malcolm just doesn't understand.  How romantic can a McDonald's be?  Contains Wilkercest; specifically Reese/Malcolm.  Dedicated to Squiddosaur.


**A/N**: Also known as 'The Fic With Epic Amounts of Parenthesis.' Seriously, they're everywhere. XD

Anyway, this far overdue oneshot is dedicated to Squiddosaur; not only because I owed him a dedication, but also because he gave me the idea. I hope you don't mind that I theived your idea, Squiddy.

**Warnings**: This is rated M for a few very specific reasons: 1) Language, 2) sexual innuendo, and 3) Wilkercest. If you don't like **Reese/Malcolm**, you shouldn't be here. If you are the type that likes to leave flames, you _really _shouldn't be here because I don't put up with that crap. Flaming will not be tolerated. You've been warned.

As for everyone else, read on and enjoy.

* * *

McDonald's wasn't really the first place Malcolm would have picked for a date. Well, actually, scratch that, because with his track record, McDonald's probably would have been one of the first things to pop out of his mouth, if not into his head. And sitting in a booth at the one that was a few miles down the road from his house, Malcolm confirmed his belief that a McDonald's—if not _any_ fast food joint—was **not** the best place for a date.

Of course, at the same time he knew really couldn't blame himself for _Reese's _choice of locale. Reese had been starving and said he would pay for him if Malcolm went with him to get food, and that they could sort of make it a date (if you counted sitting on opposing sides of a booth and trying desperately not to make any sort of contact, visual or otherwise, a date). And besides, denying his brother food was like denying him air (which, coincidently, Malcolm actually _did_ do on occasion), so he couldn't refuse. Even if the smell wafting from the kitchen made him feel ever-so-slightly nauseous.

But it wasn't really the nausea that had Malcolm wishing Reese had chosen a different location. No, it was Reese _himself_. Because, as Malcolm knew _very _well, Reese was an absolute dope when he was in love. (And yes, as much as it still freaked him out a little, Malcolm did indeed admit to himself that his brother was in love with him. But you'd never get him to say it aloud.) At first he'd thought that maybe, just maybe, Reese would be able to control himself. He figured '_We're in a public place; Reese will know better.'_ And then Malcolm figured _he_ should have known better.

Their "date" had started innocently enough: they'd ordered and found a booth towards the back to sit at, and Reese had immediately started to devour his Big Mac. Malcolm had stuck a McNugget in his mouth and started pondering how the kitchen could reek so bad, yet the food could taste so good. And then he had started watching cars zip by on the inter-state only a few hundred feet away—completely ignoring the obvious lack of communication going on in their booth—and then he had looked back at Reese. And that's where it had gone downhill.

Reese was staring at him in that uniquely Reese way where you couldn't tell if he was looking through you, or imagining impressive ways to kick your ass. Or, conversely, the stare could have meant he'd simply blanked out (which actually happened more than most people realized—and whoever 'most people' was, Malcolm couldn't tell you). Malcolm wasn't really sure which it was, because you really didn't know until he either snapped out of it, or the ass kicking began. So he stared back.

Before Malcolm actually realized it had happened Reese snapped back, and this time looked at him like he was actually there. He blinked once, then sat his burger down.

"What?" he asked.

Malcolm shrugged and took a sip of his Coke.

"You were staring at me."

"I was?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." Reese suddenly looked a little embarrassed, which, considering it was Reese, should have put Malcolm on edge immediately. "I was just thinking," Reese said. His eyes slid conspicuously away.

"Well don't hurt yourself," Malcolm replied, falling back into an old habit he probably should have kicked months ago. He hadn't actually meant for it to be insulting, but if Reese noticed either way he didn't show it.

"I was thinking..." Reese continued, as if Malcolm hadn't spoken. "We never, y'know... Do romantic... stuff." He finished almost absent-mindedly, as if what he was saying wasn't fully registering with his brain.

Malcolm nearly choked on an ill-chewed bit of McNugget.

"What?" he asked after his coughing fit had ended and he'd taken a large gulp of Coke. "What do you mean we never do romantic _stuff_?"

"You know," Reese said. "Stuff. Like..." He stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth in a stereotypical comic way that would have had Malcolm rolling his eyes if he hadn't been so shocked. "Like stuff you see in movies," he said. "Like when the guy and girl go out on the beach to make out."

Malcolm stared at his brother as if just realizing he was an idiot.

"Reese, we make out_ all the time_," he shout-whispered, only barely restraining himself from flailing his arms around above his head over dramatically. "You can't tell me you've forgotten"—he lowered his voice a little—"last night?"

The night he had in mind had actually been the night _before_ the night before, in which he and Reese had had awesomely spazz-tastic make-up sex after having an equally awesome and spazz-tastic fight over absolutely nothing. (They did it on purpose occasionally, just for the make-up sex. Which was always spazz-tastically awesome.) But he didn't feel chronological accuracy was necessary right at that moment.

Reese considered that for somewhere around a second before immediately dismissing it.

"Dude," he said in a tone that shouted _'YOU'RE NOT GETTING IT!'_ "That's not romantic. That's sex. That's getting jiggy with it under my bedsheets while Dewey cries himself to sleep."

Malcolm nearly had another coughing fit, but whether he did or not Reese ignored it and continued on.

"I'm talking about stuff that shows I _love_ you." He whispered the 'L' word so that only Malcolm could hear it, and despite nearly a year of dating it still made Malcolm's heart flutter and sputter to hear him say it. "Like over there," Reese said, pointing to a couple across the restaurant.

The people in question where an elderly married couple, and if they looked familiar to Malcolm he didn't realize it. The man was sort of pudgy and balding and ever-so-slightly sunbrurnt, and the woman was slim and graying. They both looked happy, as if they were enjoying their fast food immensely. As Malcolm watched, the man dipped a fry into a small carton of honey mustard while the woman dipped another fry in a small carton of ketchup, and they fed them to one another. Then they switched, the man dipping a fry into ketchup while the woman dipping a fry into honey mustard. Once, the man missed his wife's mouth completely and a red smear appeared across her cheek. They both dissolved into fits of laughter while the woman unsuccessfully tried to wipe the ketchup off with a napkin.

Malcolm turned back to Reese.

"Those two," Reese said, "are probably, like, a hundred million years old, but they still love each other. They're like if Mom and Dad hadn't had kids. Why can't we be like that?"

Malcolm nearly cocked an eyebrow at him.

"You want us to be an old married couple? Because I can tell you—"

"No, dammit!" Reese pounded a fist onto the table in frustration. A few people around the room turned to look at the source of the noise, but went ignored. "You don't get it," Reese said.

Malcolm could have rebutted that, because, actually, he did get it. He knew what Reese meant, even if Reese couldn't articulate it. He just didn't see what the big deal was. To Malcolm, romantic was memorizing every single thing his love interest liked, and then forcing himself to like it too. But since that normally came across as creepy—and because he simply couldn't force himself to be interested in professional wrestling or a career in cleaning toilets—he preferred not to try it on Reese. In fact, he much preferred the way their relationship had already been going, which included quite a bit of things involving their bedroom and conveniently placed bottles of cheap toothpaste. So why change it?

"Reese," he said placatingly, moving the tips of his fingers almost imperceptibly closer to Reese's hand across the table. Reese glared him in the eye. "Look, you know my barrel of romantic ideas is really shallow"—actually, it was more of a skillet, and even then it looked like the giant kid that lived down the street had gotten hold of it—"so you'll probably have to come up with them. So what do you suggest?"

He picked up a fry to munch on while Reese thought that over.

Reese, for his part, just watched as Malcolm chewed, an idea dawning on him with surprising speed. He began to grin openly as he imagined the look that was surely about to appear on Malcolm's face.

Malcolm frowned suspiciously at his brother.

"...what?" he asked, maybe a little too cautiously.

Reese didn't say anything—he instead picked up one of his fries and held it out, as if for Malcolm to take. Malcolm just stared at it.

"What?" he asked again.

Reese still didn't say anything. He just held out the fry expectantly. He wiggled it a little.

Suddenly, in a moment of insanely-weird synapse connections, a vision of _Lady and the Tramp_ reruns flashed through Malcolm's mind, and he knew exactly what Reese wanted.

"Oh hell no!" he hissed.

Reese frowned, but didn't back down.

"You are _not_ feeding me French fries!"

Malcolm had backed himself up as far as he could go against his side of the booth, crossing his arms in front of him and trying his best to glare Reese down. He screwed his mouth shut, which only served to make it look like the food he'd been eating was extraordinarily sour.

Reese leaned forward menacingly.

"Eat it," he said. Suddenly this had turned from being a romantic gesture to a battle of wills, and Reese knew exactly how to win.

When Malcolm didn't respond he reached across the table with his other hand and grabbed a fistful of Malcolm's shirt, pulling him down to table level. He stuck the French fry in front of him.

"Either eat the fry out of my hand," he said, grinning despite their close proximity and Malcolm's stubbornness, "or I'll kiss you. Those are your only options."

Malcolm's eyes instantly widened and he tried desperately to look around to see how many people were in the McDonald's. Reese's grip on him was firm, though, so all he could see were the people to his left, and there were plenty of them for a scene. And he was sure at least a few of them knew who they were. Or, more specifically, _what_ they were.

So, with the reluctance of a child that's just been told he has to take a bath (and with all the petulance, too), Malcolm opened his mouth and accepted the offered French fry. It was a long and soggy one, and the look on Reese's face said he'd chosen it especially for those qualities. Although, really, just like the rest of the partially-hydrogenated "food" the McDonald's served, it wasn't that bad. Despite being long and soggy. Which really shouldn't be all that funny...

As the last of the fry disappeared into Malcolm's mouth and Reese let go of his shirt, Malcolm nearly snorted chewed and partially-hydrogenated fry bits onto Reese's face. Because really, no matter how he thought about it, a long and soggy fry had to be one of the funniest things Reese had come up with all day. Which probably said something about his lack of recent creativity, but Malcolm didn't really care.

Reese's grin turned into a smile and he offered Malcolm another fry, which Malcolm happily took from him with his teeth. He chewed, swallowed, and opened his mouth for another. What he got was a handful of the salty things nearly shoved down his throat, but he managed to chew most of them and swallow with only minimal amounts dropping onto the table.

He grinned at Reese as he wiped his face (because really, no matter how hard you try, you're _always_ going to get fry bits stuck to your chin when you try to eat a handful at a time).

"That was punishment, wasn't it?"

Reese gave him a triumphant look.

"Maybe next time you won't question my romantic ideas," he said.

Malcolm had to hold back a snort.

"Yeah, sure. You sticking those long salty things in my mouth was _so_ romantic."

Neither of them paid attention as the people around them began to give them slightly disgusted looks. They also didn't notice a pair of children a few tables away started to imitate them as their mother frantically tried to stop them. (And this was really only because instead of feeding each other the fries, the brother was throwing them at his sister. So while this is probably really fun for four-year-olds, McDonald's staff generally frown on _more_ mess to clean up.)

Reese leaned forward again, conspiratorially gesturing for Malcolm to lean in too.

"Feed me," he said, and he might not have just meant it in the literal way. There was a certain innuendo to his tone, and Malcolm knew it. He also had an inkling of what they would probably be doing once they got back into his car.

Either way, Malcolm leaned in and grabbed a fry, fixing to slide it into Reese's mouth. But instead of Reese opening his mouth to accept it, he reached around Malcolm, pulling him forward and kissing him.

And okay, that did it. People were officially staring. Malcolm figured he probably should have been paying more attention to Reese's lips (they were kinda salty, which actually wasn't unusual...), but he couldn't help glancing at the people around them and trying to figure out which of them knew him. But then Reese deftly maneuvered his tongue into Malcolm's mouth and Malcolm lost any amount of worry he might have had. (He figured, absently, that when you were the lowest totem on the proverbial social totem pole there wasn't anywhere to go but up, so he just went with it.)

That, of course, was when he saw (in the reflection of the rear window of the restaurant) an employee behind the counter quickly dialing a corded phone and figured it was probably time to leave. So he untangled himself from Reese and gave a quick, jerking nod behind him. Luckily Reese got the message immediately and scooped up the remains of both their meals onto a tray.

After they'd thrown away their trash and were walking to the exit, one of Reese's arms snaked around Malcolm's middle and his hand found its way into Malcolm's back pocket. Whether or not this provoked a reaction out of anyone behind them Malcolm didn't care, because he figured they probably wouldn't be welcome in that particular McDonald's ever again anyway. Actually, his mind was far more focused on thanking Reese for a romantic date very well executed, and pondering how well his brother would be able to drive on the highway with his face in his lap.

* * *

**A/N**: Personally, I like McDonald's. Their fries and nuggets are _amazing_. Of course, that's only because it's "food." XD

Anyway... I think this seems to end rather suddenly. I mean, it might just be me, but from the kiss to the end seems to happen rather fast. -sigh- Oh well.

Oh, and don't let this fool you into thinking I've gotten a second (third?) wind; most of this was written about two months ago. The only thing I actually wrote tonight was the last paragraph there. I was flipping through my 'In Progress' folder and came upon this, and decided it was just too awesome to let die. I mean, seriously, there are at least two sentences in there that make me giggle every time I read them. I'm sure you can guess at least one of them. :P

I hope you enjoyed this (especially you, Squiddosaur). Reviewing is not necessary, but highly encouraged. Feedback is always extremely appreciated, but never mandatory. :D


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